


Nobody

by Samayla



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Haircuts, If You Squint - Freeform, Kink Meme, Thilbo, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayla/pseuds/Samayla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, well, well.  Look who it is: Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain.” He paused in mock thoughtfulness.  “Oh, but I am forgetting: you don’t have a mountain.  And you’re not a king, which makes you, well,” again the sarcastic pause, “Nobody, really.” </p><p>Thorin is subjected to the ultimate humiliation for a dwarf, but his friends will always be there for him at the end of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the Hobbit Kink Meme: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3651.html?thread=7923011#t7923011

A/N: A bit longer than qed_221b’s brilliant artfill... This one kind of got away from me and drifted off into sappy fluff land.  Read at your own risk J

 

.oOo.

  
            “Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom?  Spies?  Thieves?  Assassins?”  The grotesquely huge king of the goblins eyed Thorin and company with a look of speculation on his pimpled face.  No doubt he was trying to calculate the potential worth of his new prizes. 

            One of the smaller goblins surrounding the company scuttled forward.  “Dwarves, Your Malevolence,” he simpered.  “We found them on the Front Porch.”

            The Great Goblin let out a long-suffering sigh and gestured toward his prisoners.  “Well, don’t just stand there.  Search them!  Every crack, every crevice.”

            While the goblins scrabbled over one another in their haste to do as bidden, the king turned his attention back to the dwarves themselves.  “What are you doing in these parts?” he demanded.  “Speak!”  None of Thorin’s brave company said a word.  The Great Goblin looked positively delighted.  “Very well.  If they will not talk, we’ll make them squawk!  Bring up the Mangler!  Bring up the Bone Breaker!”

            Thorin realized they could no longer remain silent, though none of his loyal dwarves would speak without his permission.  He cast a quick glance over the group and discovered their burglar with his quick tongue was nowhere to be found.  It would fall to him to talk them out of this then.  He pushed forward through the throng of dwarves and goblins to make himself known.  “Wait.”

            The Great Goblin held up a hand to silence the uproar.  “Well, well, well.  Look who it is: Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain.” He paused in mock thoughtfulness.  “Oh, but I am forgetting: you don’t have a mountain.  And you’re not a king, which makes you, well” again the sarcastic pause, “Nobody, really.”  He grinned suddenly.  “Though I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head – just the head, mind you, nothing need be attached.  Perhaps you know of whom I speak.  An old enemy of yours?  A pale orc astride a white warg?”

            All frantic thoughts of parasites and cooking techniques flew out of his head in a rush at the mention of the creature.  Despite the fear, Thorin forced a haughty sneer to his face as he replied, “Azog the Defiler was destroyed.  He was slain in battle long ago.”

            The Great Goblin smirked but held his laughter in check.  “So you think his defiling days are done, do you?” He turned to a stunted little gremlin hovering nearby.  “Send word to the Pale Orc.  Tell him I have found his prize.”  While his messenger hastened off into the distance and the dwarves shuffled uneasily behind Thorin at the news, the king turned back to face Thorin.  “Now, Nobody, what shall we do to pass the time, hmm?”

            Thorin was saved coming up with a reply by the angry shriek of the goblin who had been disarming him.  His sword in its scabbard went clattering across the ground before him.  The Great Goblin bent ponderously to pick it up before flinging it back to the ground as if burned.  His chins quavered as he pointed one thick finger at the sword.  “I know that sword.  It is the Goblin Cleaver!” The pronouncement was met with more shrieks and stamping feet on the boards.  “The Biter!  The blade that sliced a thousand necks!  We’ll slash them!  Beat them! Kill them!  We’ll kill them all and cut off his head!” Hundreds of goblins echoed the king’s cries. 

            “Together,” Dwalin cried, and Thorin and the other dwarves closed ranks against the angry goblin throng that surrounded them.  Fists and claws flew in the melee, but the dwarves quickly found themselves overwhelmed and separated, most forced to the ground under the ferocity of their captors’ attacks. 

            “Bring Nobody forward.”  When none of the goblins moved, the Great Goblin sighed.  “Thorin.  Bring Thorin forward.”  The goblins dragged Thorin forward, away from his comrades and deposited him at the feet of their king.  “My goblins might be confused,” he said, “but you’re not, are you?  You know you’re Nobody.  Nobody at all.  On your knees before your better, Nobody.”

            “The Heir of Durin kneels to no one,” Thorin declared. 

            “Perhaps you are confused after all,” the Great Goblin mused.  He grinned.  “No matter.  Ragdur will have you sorted out in no time, Nobody.”  He nodded to a particularly large goblin standing near the edge of the platform.  Several smaller goblins moved to seize Thorin again, but the Great Goblin waved them away.  “No.  I have a feeling Nobody will be quite compliant.”  He raised his eyebrows at Thorin.  “Or else his comrades will feel Ragdur’s whip.  And we’ll start with the youngest.”

           The goblins holding Kili cackled, and one of them ruffled his hair in mock affection.  Thorin turned back to the goblin king.  He did not say a word, but the king took his silence for assent.  “Nobody will remove his armor?”

           Thorin hesitated only a moment before he heard the crack of the whip, and Kili and Fili cried out behind him.  He did not dare turn to look.  He simply shrugged out of his warm overcoat and dropped it to the ground.  Next went his belt, and then his lighter coat.  His armor proved more problematic, but he finally managed to get it off over his head.  The Great Goblin looked positively giddy at the sight of the dwarven king undressing before him.  “And his shirt?  Surely Nobody will want to remove his shirt as well.” Thorin’s cheeks colored in shame, but he slipped off his gauntlets and unlaced his shirt, dropping it into the heap as well. 

           Thorin glared at the huge, pimpled face before him with cold loathing, refusing to show fear to his foe. He would be strong for his companions, a worthy king, no matter what fate the goblin had in mind.  So intent was Thorin on the face of his enemy that the first kiss of Ragdur’s whip came as a cruel shock.  He bit back a startled cry as he staggered slightly under the blow.  Ragdur waited only long enough for Thorin to regain his footing before sending another lash slicing into his bare back.  He was prepared for this one, and managed to hold back any indication of the pain from his face and voice.  He could hear Dwalin growling behind him, and he silently willed the company to remain silent.  As long as the Great Goblin was focused on him, there was hope of escape, at least for the others. 

           Blow after blow rained down upon his back, biting deeply into his flesh, and Thorin could feel his resolve to not make a sound wearing down.  Still he stared down the Great Goblin.  As Ragdur changed direction to cross the new wounds across the old ones, Thorin let out his first cry.  He could feel blood running down his back, and he wondered dimly why the moisture didn’t seem to relieve any of the burning pain that engulfed him.

           Thorin stumbled again when a wild strike of Ragdur’s whip caught one of his braids and jerked his head back.  There was a scuffle behind him, and he heard Fili’s cry of “Uncle!”

           “Have you remembered, Nobody?” the goblin king called.  “Do you kneel?”

           Thorin growled and pushed himself to his feet once more.  “I do not.” His voice was like gravel in the wake of his cries.

           Ragdur resumed his work.  Thorin endured unsteadily for a few blows more, but when Ragdur sent the end of the whip to snake around his throat, Thorin fell once again, coughing.  He heard Fili and Kili shouting behind him, and Bifur’s deep rumble in Khuzdul urging him to rise once more, while Balin’s soft murmurs of encouragement carried through as little more than a calming hum.  Thorin tried to rise, but fire coursed in ragged lines across his back at his slightest move.  He could not get beyond his hands and knees.  Sweat dripped into his eyes, and once more he wondered vaguely at his body’s ineffectual attempts at quenching the flames that seemed to be licking their way across his shoulders.

           “Nobody kneels,” the Great Goblin crooned, coming to stand over his prone and shaking form.  “Doesn’t he?” 

           On his hands and knees before the king, Thorin spared a glance back at his comrades.  Amid the crowd of flushed or pale faces, he spied Kili’s, with a bloody gash across one cheek.  

           The goblin poked him in the ribs with a toe.  “Doesn’t he?”

           Thorin hung his head.  “He does,” he murmured.

           The goblin tangled his fingers in Thorin’s hair and lifted his head up.  Blood dripped from the wound circling his neck.  “See now?  That wasn’t so very difficult, was it, Nobody?” Thorin didn’t have the will to answer, but thankfully the king required no answer to massage his pride.  He ran a finger from his other hand along Thorin’s jaw and then lifted up one braid.  “Knife,” he called. 

           There was a general outcry, but it was Ori’s voice that cut through the din.  “Wait!”  The goblin turned and raised an eyebrow, amused enough by the little dwarf’s nerve to listen.  “E-even Azog the Defiler left Thror his braids at the Battle of Azanulbizar,” he stammered.

           “Ah, but you see, little one, Thror was a king.  He had a mountain.  Nobody is no king.”  With that, he sliced off Thorin’s braid.  He released the fallen dwarf and waved the braid over his head, to the roaring of the gathered goblins.  He tossed the knife toward another goblin.  “But I am a generous king,” he declared.  “Share the rest of his precious hair amongst yourselves.”

           With a howl, the goblins nearest Thorin set upon him.  Thick locks of hair were pulled and cut and passed into the riotous crowd.  Thorin was pushed and pulled in all directions, and he could hear his fellow dwarves fighting desperately against their guards to get to him.

           The Great Goblin waddled back to his throne, laughing to himself.  “Leave the beard,” he called over the heads of the crowd, “or what little of it there is.  Azog will need some way to recognize his head when he gets it.”

 

.oOo.

 

            Thorin must have passed out at some point, because suddenly he was moving, being half-carried, half-dragged alongside Dwalin as the burly dwarf ran through Goblin Town.  “Kili?” he croaked, trying and failing to turn his head far enough to see behind him.

            “He’s there,” Dwalin assured him, somewhat breathlessly.  Thorin’s gaze followed the pointing of Dwalin’s sword to see Kili using a rickety ladder to shove goblins off the platform ahead of them.

            “Sword?”

            Dwalin’s practiced eye quickly evaluated his condition.  From the way his eyebrows rose, Thorin knew it wasn’t good.  Still, they both knew he needed to have a chance of defending himself, and as it was, he was a terrible liability to his friend’s left side.  “Fili,” Dwalin bellowed over his shoulder.  “Sword!”

            “Uncle!”

            Thorin caught the sword tossed from above with only the slightest stumble.  He was forced to wield it left-handed, but it was better than nothing.  He noted with a touch of wonder that it was his own Orcrist.  Within moments, all capacity for thought was eliminated, as swarms of goblins surrounded them on the narrow walkway. They slashed their way through the throng.

           During a momentary lapse in fighting, Thorin spied Gandalf leading the charge on the walkway above them with Glamdring, though where he’d come from, and when, Thorin had no idea.  The upper path abruptly ended ahead, and Dwalin jerked Thorin to a brief halt so the others could jump down to their level.  Before Thorin could even catch his breath, Dwalin was dragging him to run again.  The scrape of his gauntlets on Thorin’s raw back ground away at his willpower, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to stop. 

           Suddenly, Thorin got his wish.  He pitched forward as Dwalin skidded to a stop again, but Dwalin and Bifur at his other side caught and steadied him.  Over the heads of his comrades, Thorin could see the Great Goblin facing down against Gandalf.  There was a rushing sound in his ears that made it impossible for him to tell what was being said, but the exchange was brief, and ended with the Great Goblin collapsing. 

           Thorin’s happiness at the sight of the beast’s demise was short-lived as he felt himself falling again.  This time, Dwalin and Bifur and the others fell with him.  He couldn’t make sense of what was happening, but as he landed on his back, everything went mercifully black again.

 

.oOo.

 

            “Five, six, seven, eight... Bifur and Bofur, that’s ten.  Fili, Kili, that’s twelve, and Bombur. That makes thirteen.”  Thorin clawed his way up out of the darkness to the sound of Gandalf’s voice somewhere above him.  Dazzling sunlight blinded him as his eyes came open.  “Where’s Bilbo?” Gandalf was asking.  “Where is our hobbit?”  An argument broke out as everyone tried to blame the hobbit’s disappearance on someone else.  Gandalf threw up his hands and demanded, “What happened exactly?  Tell me.”

            Thorin spoke up, sitting up slowly with Dwalin’s help and doing his best to keep the pain of the movement from showing on his face.  “I’ll tell you what happened.  Master Baggins saw his chance, and he took it.  He’s thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door.  We will not be seeing our hobbit again.  He is long gone.”

            “No, he isn’t.”  Bilbo appeared suddenly from behind a tree, though Thorin could have sworn he had neither seen nor heard his approach.

            “Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf breathed, obviously relieved.  “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.  When I saw Thorin and the others, well, I feared the worst.”

            Bilbo smiled at Gandalf’s enthusiasm and opened his mouth to reply, but when he spotted Thorin sitting amongst the pine needles, covered in blood and missing most of his hair, whatever he was going to say died on his tongue.  “What on earth happened?” he demanded.

            “Master Gandalf arrived and distracted the goblins long enough for us to reach our weapons,” Dori said with a bow in the wizard’s direction. 

            “But what about Thorin?” Bilbo asked.

           “Close thing, too,” Fili added, rising from his uncle’s side, “else, Ori, here, was going to have to go and get well and truly riled.”  He clapped hand on the young dwarf’s shoulder and fixed Bilbo with a winning grin.

           “But what-”

            “Aye,” Kili chimed in over Bilbo’s question, “and then none of the rest of us would have had any goblins to kill.”

           Bilbo was not to be deterred.  “What about Thorin’s –”

          His question was cut off as Dwalin delivered a punch squarely to the hobbit’s jaw.  The blow knocked Bilbo back a step, and he tripped over a tree root and wound up on his rear in the dirt. 

          A sudden cry in Orcish from above them on the mountainside halted whatever Bilbo might have said.

          “They’re coming,” Thorin breathed.  “Azog.” 

           Dwalin hoisted the hobbit back to his feet and shoved him at the wizard.  “Run,” Gandalf yelled.  “Up into the trees, all of you.  Climb!”  He helped Dwalin get Thorin to his feet and pointed in the right direction.  Once more, Dwalin was all but dragging him along at his side as he ran for the trees at the edge of the cliff below them. 

            Dwalin and the others leapt quickly into the lowest branches of the trees.  As he tried to reach up for Dwalin’s hand, Thorin realized he would not be able to climb.  He turned away from his friends, ignoring their cries of dismay.

            Slowly, the goblins spread out to circle him.  Azog said something else in the harsh language of the goblins.  Too late, Thorin realized Orcrist was no longer in his hand. As the first goblin charged on its huge warg, Thorin dropped to his knees.  At the last moment, he lifted a fallen tree branch and the warg’s own momentum impaled it on the jagged end. 

           Out of pure luck, the falling beast trapped its rider, and Thorin was able to crawl forward and seize the goblin’s rusty iron sword.  He decapitated the creature in one blow.  As he turned, the great hairy paw of another warg swatted him to the side as easily as Thorin himself might have swatted an annoying fly.  He landed facedown a fair distance away and struggled to draw breath again.  As the last of the adrenaline left his system, Thorin felt the hungry flames return, racing along his back and around his throat.  He seemed to see them this time, as well, eating up the trees as they were eating him.  

          “Fili!  Kili!  No!”  Gandalf’s cry rang out across the battleground.  Moments later, two pairs of booted feet raced past Thorin’s face.  He heard harsh laughter and the clash of steel on steel.  Then blond hair filled his vision as Fili fell beside him.  Thorin raised his head just enough to see Kili fall as well.

          Azog approached, laughing again at the tears stinging Thorin’s eyes.  After everything, his nephews would die, just as his grandfather had died, at the hands of the Pale Orc.  Azog raised his spike of a hand to deliver the death blow, but suddenly, hairy feet were leaping over Thorin, and the halfling was knocking the Defiler back.  One orc and its warg fell to the halfling’s glowing blue blade, and then Thorin was flying.

 

.oOo.

 

            Thorin opened his eyes to see Gandalf withdrawing a hand from over his face.  The wizard smiled and then backed away in alarm as Fili and Kili barreled into Thorin’s field of view.

            “Uncle,” Fili cried.

            “Are you alright?” Kili asked breathlessly.

            Thorin’s brow furrowed in thought.  There was something terribly important he needed to remember, but the sight of Fili and Kili’s bloody faces was paralyzing him.  He remembered and lurched upwards, trying to sit, but pain tore at his back, making him cry out hoarsely.  His nephews caught him and raised him slowly to sit on the stony ground.  “The halfling?” he rasped.

            “It’s alright,” Gandalf said with a smile.  “Bilbo is here.  He’s quite safe.”  He stood so that Thorin could see Bilbo standing a short ways off, by himself, silhouetted by the sinking sun.

            “You,” Thorin growled, surging to his feet, once again with the aid of his nephews.  He staggered over to the hobbit.  “What were you doing?” he demanded.  “You nearly got yourself killed!  Did I not say that you would be a burden?  That you would not survive in the wild and that you have no place amongst us?”  He lunged forward and caught Bilbo in an embrace.  “I have never been so wrong in all my life.”  He pulled back.  “I am sorry I doubted you.”

            “No, I would have doubted me, too.  I’m not a hero or a warrior.” He smiled sheepishly, though the darkening bruise on his jaw made it somewhat lopsided.  “Not even a burglar.”

            “You’re good enough for us, Master Boggins,” Kili called over his uncle’s shoulder.

            Thorin rounded on his nephews.  “Don’t even get me started on you two!  What would your mother have said if I’d gotten the pair of you killed?”  He raised a finger to point accusingly, but staggered under the intensity of the pain that small action brought about in his back.

            “We’ll likely never know,” Gandalf said mildly, taking Thorin’s arm and guiding him to sit once more.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time for Oin to take a look at your back before you succumb to infection.  You’ll all camp here on the Carrock tonight, and in the morning, we’ll journey down into the valley.”

            “But where are you going, Master Gandalf?” Dori asked.

            “I think a time of rest is in order, but I must visit an old friend to ensure he will be hospitable.  There is fresh water and good firewood a short walk to the west.  I should return by morning.”

            Gandalf disappeared, and while the others set up camp and got a light supper of wild edibles cooking on the fire, Oin set about the task of cleaning Thorin’s wounds.  Hair and gravel had stuck to the drying blood trails, and it all had to be picked out, as no one was certain Thorin could make it down the Carrock to the stream and back before full dark made the journey entirely too treacherous.  Thankfully, Oin was skilled at his work, and the process of cleaning and anointing the wounds was quickly over.

            The others had had the presence of mind to snatch most of Thorin’s clothes during their flight through Goblin Town.  His gauntlets were gone, but his shirt, his warm outer coat, and his sword belt with Orcrist had made the escape.  He had foregone the shirt for the time being, but his coat was easily slipped over his shoulders, so he sat huddled in it after Oin finished bandaging his wounds.

            “I’ll take first watch,” Thorin declared after everyone had finished eating and laying out bedrolls.  He himself had had no appetite, and he had noticed the others casting strange looks his direction as they ate.  He was anxious for the peace of a solitary watch.  None of the others dared challenge him, and Thorin moved off to the edge of the firelight as they slipped into their cloaks and blankets.

            As the usual chorus of snores filled the campsite, Thorin at last allowed himself to relax. He found the missing weight of his braids on his shoulders disconcerting.  Eventually, he gathered the courage to reach up and take stock of whatever was left of his hair.  He started to raise a shaking hand, but the pain in his back awakened again, and he let out a low curse.

            Someone in one of the bedrolls shifted, and Thorin froze.  Bofur rolled over and tugged his hat back down on his head.  Thorin let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and closed his eyes.

            “Do you need more ointment?”

            Thorin’s eyes flew open.  Nori was crouching in front of him.  He hadn’t even heard the thief approach.  “What? No. I’m fine.”

            Nori just smiled knowingly and set down Oin’s little pot.  He sat down next to Thorin and gazed silently into the dwindling fire for a while.  “There’s enough left for braiding,” he said finally.

            “What?”

            “Your hair,” Nori said.  “I was thinking about it, and there’s probably enough left that I could braid it.”

            Thorin thought about it.  “Is it bad?” he asked at last. 

            Nori shrugged.  “It could be worse, I suppose.”

            “How’s that?” Thorin blinked back bitter tears.  Having his hair forcibly cut was a grave insult to any dwarf, but in the case of a king, such an offense carried the death sentence for the perpetrator.

            Suddenly Bofur appeared on Thorin’s other side.  “Well, your head could still be attached to it back there in that pit,” he pointed out helpfully. 

           Thorin didn’t answer, but he resolved to pay closer attention to what was going on.  He wasn’t much use as a sentry if two of his own companions could sneak up right in front of him.  He told himself it was the strength of Oin’s medicine that was to blame for the inattention and the tears.

            “You should let him braid it,” Bofur continued.  “Maybe if you let him do yours, Ori will finally break down and let him finish his.”  He lowered his voice conspiratorially.  “I’ll keep an eye on him so you don’t wind up looking like Dori.”

            Thorin snorted.

            “You’ve got to be a good role model,” Nori added, pretending he hadn’t heard Bofur’s comment about his brother’s hairstyle.  “It would be an honor, Your Majesty.”

            “Alright,” Thorin conceded.

            Satisfied, Bofur scooted around so that Thorin could lean his back carefully against the side of his bent legs.  He laid down, pulled his flute out of a pocket and began to play softly, a light, pleasant tune that he seemed to be making up on the spot.  Thorin listened and surrendered himself to Nori’s attentions.  He was careful and gentle, and Thorin soon found himself drifting near sleep as Oin’s ointment at last began to take full effect on the ravaged flesh of his back. 

 

.oOo.

 

           A sudden brightening of the firelight startled him, but Balin was there at his side with a quiet word to calm him.  “Just stoking up the fire, laddie,” he murmured.  “Better light to braid by.”  Indeed, Thorin could see Oin and Gloin working together, for once, to coax the fire to a merry blaze.  In fact, it seemed that he had been drifting longer than he’d first thought, as the rest of the company had wakened and was bustling about the campsite as well, more or less quietly. 

           He could see Bombur working at something with the big metal cook pot on the far side of the fire, probably getting breakfast started already. Bifur appeared at the edge of camp, having carried more firewood up the steep, dark trail that wound down around the side of the Carrock. 

          Ori and Dori were seated near Thorin.  Ori was slowly and methodically unraveling a knot of thread and passing pieces he cut off of it to the others, while his brother directed Dwalin, Fili, and Kili.  Thorin’s two nephews did their best to keep their laughter in check as Dwalin cursed suddenly and stuck a fingertip in his mouth.  Dori let out an exasperated sigh, but a quick glance in Thorin's direction silenced whatever comment he had been about to make. He shifted so he blocked Thorin's view of whatever they were doing. Every now and then, one of them would hand a piece of whatever they were working on over to Nori.

          Even the halfling was awake and busy.  He sat near the far edge of the Carrock, working intently at something he held in his lap.  Thorin watched him for a while.  Every few minutes, the hobbit would hold up whatever he was working on to the light, and then he’d lower it and attack it furiously with the corner of his cloak again. 

          As Nori neared the last locks of Thorin’s hair, the others began to drift over.  They made way for Bombur to come to the front, a brilliantly polished pot in his hand.  He handed it over to the confused Thorin, who quickly realized it was to be used as a mirror.  In the grey predawn light, he could see the tiny, even rows of braids Nori had managed to weave out of his roughly-shorn hair. From what he could see, each braid was secured by a knot of hemmed fabric.  While he couldn’t say that every strip was neatly hemmed, they were at least very thoroughly hemmed.  He now knew what it was Dwalin had been cursing about.  Thorin caught Nori’s eye in the mirror, and the thief offered him a mischievous wink.

            Bombur cleared his throat, drawing Thorin’s attention back to the cook.  He reached out and touched a scrap of green fabric on one braid.  “That one is from me, Your Majesty,” he said, holding up the frayed edge of his shirt in explanation.

            One by one, the other dwarves stepped up and showed Thorin the hair ties they’d donated to the cause: red from Balin, Dori, Ori, and Gloin; brown from Fili, Dwalin, Bifur, and Bofur; grey from Oin and Nori; blue from Kili.  Each explanation was accompanied by a quiet “Your Majesty,” as if their words could erase those said by the Great Goblin from Thorin’s memory.

            Bilbo stepped forward last.  “I would have given this to you sooner, but Dwalin’s punch earlier,” he spared a glance at the burly dwarf at his side, who barked a laugh and mussed his hair affectionately.  “Well, it quite knocked it out of my mind.” He held out Thorin’s own silver braid clasp, polished to a beautiful shine.  “Some of the goblin filth was rather stubborn, but I think you’ll find it’s quite restored now.”  Nori affixed it to the end of the last braid, woven from a lock of hair near Thorin’s temple that had somehow escaped the encounter with the goblins nearly unscathed.

            Thorin was quite overcome by the care shown by his friends.  He treated them to a sincere smile, one that was mirrored by the thirteen faces surrounding him.  Everything he had suffered in Goblin Town had been worth it, to protect his band of misfits.

            “Ah, good, you’re awake.”  Startled, the dwarves spun to see Gandalf climbing back onto the Carrock, the sun at his back.  “Wait a moment for the glare to pass, and I think you’ll behold a welcome sight to the east.”  Dwalin and Fili helped Thorin to stand and approach Gandalf and the edge of their elevated campsite with the others.

             “Is that what I think it is?” Bilbo asked, unable to tear his eyes from the distant peak that was slowly revealed amid the morning mist. 

             “Erebor,” Gandalf answered.  “The Lonely Mountain.  The last of the great Dwarf kingdoms of Middle Earth.” 

             “Our home,” Thorin agreed.  He began to sing. 

 

_“_ _From corners far and reaches deep,_

_The dwarves have come to seize the keep._ _”_

 

            Bofur’s flute took up the familiar melody to support his voice.

 

_“_ _Both young and old, they seek their gold,_

_And nevermore – ”_

 

             Thorin’s voice wavered and broke, still weak from his cries as he was beaten the day before.  Gloin put a gentle hand on his shoulder.  With a smile, he completed Thorin’s verse and continued on with his own,

 

_“And nevermore their kin shall weep._

_Through goblin den and fiercest fight,_

_The dwarves have won their way this night._

_Around the fire, atop stone spire,_

_Their hope arises with first light._

_The sun alights on comp_ _’_ _ny small,_

_And hopeful gaze lifts up the pall._

_They take as sign all shall be fine:_

_The Lonely Mountain, stark and tall._ _”_

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody would be interested in attempting artwork of Thorin in that last scene, I'd love you FOREVER! I need Cornrows!Thorin to happen in my life, but all my attempts turn out looking like lumpy orcs ;_;


End file.
